The Five score some quick points at their set's finale, with an OK reading of "Final Solution", but previous to that I wasn't all that thrilled with their rather spastic, uninvolving tuneage...
Salem 66 stuff works well on disc for me; introspective without being overly syrupy in a format that recalls some of the finer moments of the Propeller camp (from whence they partially came), if in a less obtuse manner. Live, that can translate into insufferable boredom. Their delicate studio intricacies turn coy and muddled, and stretched out over a full forty-five minutes, it can lead to a wearying affair...
Big Black continue to dominate the live stage with an inhuman abandon that makes you wanna scream, "What fuckin' right do these guys have in throwing so much filth out at me?" But they do it anyway, with little worry for your paltry concerns. And if their drum box seemed a bit subdued compared to the all-encompassing wrench-hold it had when I saw 'em last, it's still pretty damn formidable in its undeviating ball-splitting course. No "Rema Rema," but still amazing.
1-2-3-4-/5th GENERATION POST PUNK-POP-ROCK-SCHLOCK SHIT-CORE CRAP. ABSOLUTELY NO REDEEMING QUALITIES WHAT-SO-EVER. PURE FLAB. RICH-BITCH SHIT LICKERS, LOOKING FOR A WAY "IN". FUCK THAT SHIT...
HOW DO I HATE THE.. LET ME COUNT THE WAYS.... BORING, STUPID, USELESS (AND SO MUCH LESS) CUNT-LIPPED PISS-FLAPS TRIPPING ALL OVER THEIR DRIPPING MUTILATIONS. MUTATIONS. SUCKING ATOMIC COCK, PUSSY GALORE, MY ASS, ASSHOLES, DOESN'T STINK LIKE THIS SHIT, JACK. ROCKS WORSE THAN LIVE SKULL WHEN DEAD. DULL, DULL, DUMB, DUMB, DUMB, IN THE BRAIN-DEAD HEADS. & DONE&DONE&DONE&DONE TO DEATH. I'M SICK TO SHIT OF THIS KINDA SHIT. IMITATORS, IRRITATORS, IDOLATORS.
HOW DO I HATE YOU... LET ME COUNT THE WAYS, CUNTS.... BUT THEN ON SECOND THOUGHT WHY SHOULD I WASTE ANOTHER MINUTE ON THE PUTREFYING MAGNIFICATION OF YOUR COMPLETELY INEPT ATTEMPT AT INGRATIATING ANYONE THROUGH YOUR DATED IMPERFECTIONS, MULTIFARIOUS IMPERSONATIONS AND IMBECILIC POSTURING. THE PAST NEVER DIES, IT JUST CONTINUALLY REPEATS ITSELF, EVENTUALLY BECOMING SO TRITE AND REDUNDANT THAT ANY NEAR CONTACT WITH THESE SOUL-SLURPING SUCK-OFFS BECOMES A MUCUS-COATED INCONVENIENCE WHICH TURNS THE KNOTS IN MY GUTS TO RAGING BULLS READY TO BEAT THE SHIT OUTA THE NEAREST CONTENDER. SO PUT YOUR FUCKING DUKES UP... YOU MAKE ME SICK...
SICK OF SLURPING THIRD RATE GENERIC-GRAVEDIGGERS EGG-CREAMED THROAT-WASH ANY LONGER, I GOT THE URGE & BAD TO BLOWOFF SOME PENT-UP FRUSTRATION THAT WOULD'VE BEEN BETTER WASTED TEARING THE T-SHIRT (BLACK OF COURSE), OFF ONE OF THE THREE SO-CALLED GUITAR PLAYERS WHO WOULD'VE MADE A FAR MORE SATISFYING RACKET STRAPPED TO A RACK IN THE BACK OF MY CLOSET GAGGED, THAN THEY'LL EVER RECREATE IN A FORMAT AS EXTINCT AS THIS. AND YEAH, YOU'RE RIGHT.. GUITARS ARE LIKE HEMORRHOIDS... SOONER OR LATER EVERY ASSHOLE GETS ONE. BUT THAT'S STILL NO REASON FOR INITIATING ANOTHER HALF-BAKED, LIMP-DICKED, JIVE-ASSED, ILL-CONCEIVED AND POORLY EXECUTED "ROCK BAND".. WHOSE ONLY ORIGINAL IDEA, IF THEY EVER HAD ONE WOULD BE TO COMMIT GROUP SUICIDE AND END THE OBVIOUS AND GRIEVOUS MISERY THEIR THOROUGHLY USELESS CONTINUED EXISTENCE INSISTENTLY IMPOSES ON ANYONE WHO STILL ENTERTAINS THE DELUDED LONG LOST HOPE, THAT SOMEWHERE UNDER ALL THE "HYPE" THERE WILL SOMEDAY BE SUBSTANCE... WRONG AGAIN...
BUT THEN AGAIN... MAYBE YOU MISSED IT ALL THE FIRST TIME... IN ITS ORIGINAL FORMAT. LIKE THE BUTTHOLE SURFERS, THE BIRTHDAY PARTY, SONIC YOUTH, THE SEEDS, THE MONKEES, THE CRAMPS, TEENAGE JESUS, AD NAUSEUM... YEAH, IT'S ALL HERE, ALRIGHT... NEWLY HOMOGENIZED, BASTARDIZED, SANITIZED & STOLEN.. THAT'S RIGHT.. RIPT-OFF AGAIN... & ALTHOUGH THEY USE A LOT OF "DIRTY" WORDS.. THE MEALY-MOUTHED DELIVERY, HILARIOUS EXECUTION & PATHETIC FLOUNDERING, IN WHAT APPEARS TO BE AN OBVIOUS ATTEMPT TO "KILL YOUR IDOLS".. BECOMES A SAD AND SICKLY JOKE WITH UNFORTUNATELY NO PUNCHLINE.. I'D LIKE TO PUNCH SOMEBODY... (unfortunately the most slappable one was already being dumped, and being kinda a quick-suck the sleazy porker humped up to the until now IMPECCABLE STEVE ALBINI who probably now knows what it's like to be "sucked dry" & although I know he's never been a fan of "whining bitch rock", he's found someplace tight and wet to ram his "art" through, only problem is IT STINKS, STEVE.) EXCUSE ME, I DIGRESS. [Ms. Lunch's digression has to do, we think, w/the recent "Whole Lotta Love" session that Steve & Christina recently "laid-down" in Chicago --ed.]
BAILING OUT TO SWALLOW SOME CLEAN AIR.. AND CLEAR THE MUD OUTA MY EARS, I WAS SPARED THE HUMDRUMBLINGS OF THE NEXT TWO ACTS, WHICH I DON'T KNOW NOW LIKE I DIDN'T CARE THEN ANYTHING AT ALL ABOUT. THE ONLY REASON I LEFT THE HOUSE AT ALL WAS TO HANG OUT WITH THE PRESENTLY "PUSSY-WHIPPED" (AT LEAST HE ADMITS HE'S A PAWN IN SOMEONE ELSE'S STUPID GAME) "SONIC" BOB BERT. WHO SHOULD FOLLOW MY ADVICE AND FORM THE ALL-NUDE DRUM REVUE, GO SOLO, OR PULL THE PICKLE OUTA THAT PRETTY LITTLE REDHEAD'S BUTT, THAT THE BANNER "BEWITCHED" HANGS OVER AND TEACH BIG STICK A TRICK OR TWO. DO IT BOB, THE WORLD AWAITS...
AND YEAH SURPRISING THAT I HELD OUT FOR ALL THOSE TEDIOUS HOURS IN THE STINKPIT WHICH BORDERS BOWERY AND BLEEKER, BUT BIG BLACK IS THE KINDA EXCUSE I NEED TO TRY AND PRETEND IT'S WORTH LEAVING THE HOUSE FOR. 42 GAMES OF "HIGH SPEED" ON THE PINBALL MACHINE LATER, WITH MY BUTT BEAT RED BY THE MANY PRONGED TENTACLES OF THE CHAMP BOB BERT, WHEN FINALLY THE MAN I'VE HEARD SO MUCH ABOUT, ESPECIALLY FROM HIMSELF, TAKES THE STAGE LIKE GANGBUSTERS WITH HIS TWO HENCHMEN. I'D BEEN WAITING FOR A LONG TIME TO BE PUMMELED WITH THOSE MIGHTY "FISTS OF LOVE" & THE WEENIE ONE WAS IN FINE AND FEROCIOUS FORM THAT NIGHT. RAM-BATTERING WITH BRUTALLY BUTT-FUCKING GUT-BUSTERING BALLS-OUT BLITZKRIEGS OF SHEER POETRY AND PAIN, I WAS PULVERIZED INTO NEAR OBLIVION AS WALL AFTER WALL OF FRUSTRATION, HEARTACHE, HATRED, DEATH, DISEASE, DIS-USE, DISGUST, MISTRUST, & MAELSTROM STORMED THE STAGE WAGING WAR WITH MILITARY PRECISION INSISTENTLY INVADING EVERY OPEN ORIFICE WITH THE STRENGTH OF TEN THOUSAND BULLS, AS JACK-HAMMERING ON THE BASE OF MY SPINE WITH A BUCK KNIFE-BURNED THE DREAM OF MY HANDS WRUNG FIRMLY AROUND HIS THROAT. PARKED IN PITCH-BLACK OVERLOOKING SOME STINKING, USELESS, LIFELESS HELLHOLE GARBAGEPLOT WHERE NEITHER OF US WANTED TO LIVE OR DIE, WHERE FOR 32 SECONDS OF HIS MEASLY LOUSY LIFE HE WASN'T IN TOTAL CONTROL OF HIS SKINNY, TIGHT NECK, TAUT, POWERFUL, RHYTHMIC THRASHINGS, THOSE IRRESISTIBLE REPETITIONS, SUCKING YOU INTO AN INCREDIBLE POUNDING LIKE A HEAD AGAINST A WINDSHIELD OVER & OVER & OVER THE BANGING BRUTALITY, SQUEEZING, FORCE-FEEDING HIM HIS OWN LOVE/HATE/LIFE/DEATHTRIP FLIRTATIONS IN REVERSAL. TO DO TO HIM WHAT HE DOES TO ME. A REAL LIVE BLISTERING "HAMMER PARTY" & THE BEAUTY OF THE BEATING, A SMOULDERING SUFFOCATION. BONE-CRUSHING BANG-GANG WHERE ALL MOTIVES ARE AS ONE, A LOADED GUN CRAMMED INTO THE CENTER OF HIS BRAIN, SCREAMING PULL THE TRIGGER, PULL THE TRIGGER, PULL THE TRIGGER. BIG FUCKING BLACK, MAN. KILL.
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Reid Fleming / cDc / mmot / rfleming@crl.com